


ceiling stars, dreaming of mars

by deathsweetqueen



Series: Winteriron Bingo 2019 [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Menstruation, Omega Heats are Complicated, Omega Howard Stark, Omega Tony Stark, Soulmates, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 02:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18929698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathsweetqueen/pseuds/deathsweetqueen
Summary: Tony Stark touches the strange, glowing cube in his father’s workshop on July 17, 1990, and suddenly, his insides shrink and twist, like snakes writhing, like he’s about to throw up. It’s an awful sort of pain in his stomach, like he’s in pre-heat, and he feels like slicing open his belly and ripping his uterus out, if only to free himself of that pain, like he always does in pre-heat and he’s bleeding out between his legs.When he opens his eyes, he’s on the cold, hard ground, gravel under his hair, and he’s blinking up at the sun that peeks out over the edge of a building. For paranoia’s sake, he checks between his legs, just to see whether he’s bleeding, because his pre-heat is always such a bitch and it always comes out of nowhere to screw him over.He’s not, thank God, and he stumbles to his feet, thinking that it must have been some acid trip he was on to make it from his father’s workshop all the way to fucking Brooklyn, judging by the décor and the street signs.Written for the Winteriron Bingo for the "time travel" square (B1)





	ceiling stars, dreaming of mars

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic comes from singtherage's poem, found here: http://singtherage.co.vu/post/138307474855/i-am-not-what-i-used-to-be-a-coalition-of
> 
> Warnings: menstruation, omega heats involve period-like symptoms for a couple of days before the raging sex stuff, omega!Howard.

Tony Stark touches the strange, glowing cube in his father’s workshop on July 17, 1990, and suddenly, his insides shrink and twist, like snakes writhing, like he’s about to throw up. It’s an awful sort of pain in his stomach, like he’s in pre-heat, and he feels like slicing open his belly and ripping his uterus out, if only to free himself of that pain, like he always does in pre-heat and he’s bleeding out between his legs.

When he opens his eyes, he’s on the cold, hard ground, gravel under his hair, and he’s blinking up at the sun that peeks out over the edge of a building. For paranoia’s sake, he checks between his legs, just to see whether he’s bleeding, because his pre-heat is always such a bitch and it always comes out of nowhere to screw him over.

He’s not, thank God, and he stumbles to his feet, thinking that it must have been some acid trip he was on to make it from his father’s workshop all the way to fucking Brooklyn, judging by the décor and the street signs.

The world tilts and flips sideways when he attempts to walk, and he groans, gripping onto a brick wall for support.

“There’s someone in the alley.”

“He looks sick, Buck. We should help him.”

“He’s probably just drunk, Steve. He’ll sober up and make it back home. Come on, I’m starvin’.”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, and wonders which poor morons decided to name their kids after fucking Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, in some creepy reboot of their legendary friendship.

“He’s an omega. We _have_ to help him!”

Tony scowls immediately, because he hates, absolutely _hates_ , having his gender brought into the conversation, like it’s a fucking sticking point beyond the fact that he bleeds out his uterus once a month for three days before going through the most intense session with a fake knot for another five.

“I can fucking hear you,” he snaps at them, blearily opening his eyes at the two men that walk carefully into the alley, towards him.

As they near him, he scents them, that thick, healthy reek of alpha in the air, and groans, because that’s exactly what he needs right now, on his way coming off the acid, the miserably stupid determination of all alphas that either think omegas need their fucking help because they’re nothing but holes on legs without an alpha, or omegas might so stricken with gratitude and appreciation that they just lie back on the floor and spread their legs for a knot.

He squints when they hit clarifying distance.

“Aren’t you guys taking the whole Captain America, Howling Commandos thing a little too far?” Tony comments, dryly.

The two men (boys, frankly), who look entirely too similar to photos Tony’s seen of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, with fucking _suspenders_ and hair smoothed back with pomade, exchange a confused look.

“Captain who?” the blonde one says, hesitantly.

“Captain America,” Tony says, slowly. “You know, epitome of human perfection, killed Nazis, this great American hero from World War II? You might have heard of him?”

The brunette narrows his eyes. “You doin’ okay, doll? You’re talkin’ in tongues.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Forget it. Where am I?”

“Brooklyn,” the blonde answers, promptly.

Tony gives him a withering look. “Yeah, I know that. Where in Brooklyn?”

The two exchange a glance.

“Midwood.”

“Joy,” Tony exhales. “Okay, I need to make it back to Manhattan. How do I do that?”

The brunette chokes. “Won’t have much like with that, doll. Buses are closed down for the night.”

Tony sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Perfect. That’s just perfect.”

The blonde reaches out. “Come on, why don’t ya come back to our place? We don’t live far away. You can leave in the mornin’ and make an early bus.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah, I’m just going to go home with a couple of strange alphas that I met in a fucking alley in Brooklyn. Do you keep your victims’ skins in your closet or in your oven?”

The blonde looks absolutely aghast. “What the heck are you talkin’ about?”

“Heck? Seriously?”

“Look, I’m sure your casual offer for a charity fuck is totally magnanimous,” Tony begins, sarcastically. “But I think I’ll pass.”

If it were even possible, the blonde looks even more horrified at his words. The brunette, on the other hand, looks a little amused by Tony’s sass, and his brow knits together, peering at Tony with interest.

“I can make it on my own, don’t worry about it,” Tony huffs.

When he takes a step forward though, his world flips and turns sideways, and he finds himself tumbling forwards. He thinks he would have hit the cement, if it weren’t for the lean, muscled arms that caught him.

Tony sucks in a breath, and when he looks up, into the brunette’s eyes, like a sunflower to the sun, he thinks, _oh, shit, not here._

Of course, of fucking course, he would meet his alpha mate here, in an alley in fucking Brooklyn of all places.

To his credit, the alpha grips his arms like he’s something precious in the world, his eyes calf-like in their immediate adoration.

 _You don’t even know me_ , he thinks, his look full of scorn.

He’s known too many alphas like that, ones who grip his wrist and grin at him like an ape and think that the universe will pull them together and then, _then_ , they’ll finally get a piece of the pie: Tony’s cunt and his bank accounts.

They think they’re owed him, and no doubt this one thinks that too, but this one will also think he owns him.

That’s even worse.

“Fuck,” he grumbles. “Not what I needed right now.”

His alpha mate’s face contorts with what Tony thinks is hurt. “‘Scuse me?” he says, brow knitting together.

Tony manages a pert smile. “I didn’t think I’d meet my alpha mate in an alley in Brooklyn. I don’t even know your name.”

His mate’s eyes widen. “Oh!” he exclaims, releasing him once he’s sure that Tony can stand on his own two feet. He sticks his hand out. “It’s Bucky, Bucky Barnes.”

Tony stills. “You have got to be kidding me,” he says, flatly.

Bucky cocks his head. “You okay, doll?” he asks, softly.

Tony would laugh in futile, baffled misery if he could, because apparently, that strange, glowing cube in his father’s workshop did more than just give him one hell of an acid trip as a consequence.

Tony swallows hard. “Okay, either this is a fucked-up dream, or a reality that it’s kind of hard to believe. You’re really Bucky Barnes?”

Bucky’s gaze turns low and intimate. “You heard’a me, doll?” he asks, smugly.

Tony grits his teeth. If those words, that tone and timbre, had come from any other alpha, he might have kneed them in the balls like Aunt Peggy taught him to – from his mate, though, much to his disgust, it’s like all that’s good and sweet in this world, his fingers trembling like butterflies.

“Not in the way you want me to,” he says, vaguely.

Bucky’s brow knits together, like he’d very much like to question Tony on his comment, but true to his reputation as a totally upstanding guy and alpha, he seems much more interested in getting Tony safely out of the alley without falling flat on his face.

Steve ( _fucking Steve Rogers, for fuck’s sake_ , Tony thinks, even if he looks cute as a button) punches Bucky in the arm. “Congrats, Buck. You found your omega.”

Tony ruffles up in anger – it comes quick to him. “I’m not _his_ anything, and thanks, Rogers, for treating me like property.”

Steve flushes red, his cheeks, his neck and his ears. “I didn’t mean to-” he frowns. “Wait, how d’you know my name?”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s a long story.” He looks up at the grey clouds scowling down at them. “You guys got a place we can hide out in, and I can explain everything.”

Bucky and Steve exchange a look.

“We’ve got an apartment a couple of streets away. We can talk there,” Steve says, kindly.

Tony wags his finger. “I wouldn’t make a habit of that, Rogers. You don’t know the shady sort you can find in an alley in Brooklyn.”

Bucky snorts. “I think we can handle you, doll.”

Tony rounds on him. “Why? ‘Cause I’m an omega?” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

Bucky quickly realises he may have mis-stepped. “That’s-that’s not what I meant,” he flounders.

“Oh, I think that’s exactly what you meant,” Tony snaps. “And you should probably know that I can kill you with seventy-eight different things in this alley right here, right now, and you’d never see me coming.”

Bucky blinks. “You been thinkin’ about that a lot or somethin’?” he asks, uncertainly.

“Nope,” Tony sighs. “Just casual observation. Now, we going to that apartment of yours or what?” he looks at them, expectantly.  

Bucky and Steve look at him like he might be a xenomorph in disguise, which is silly because Alien won’t be released for a good forty years, judging by the look of these two grand figures to be.

“Sure, let’s go.”

* * *

Tony settles on the threadbare, slightly lumpy couch and happily takes the tea that Steve hands him, sipping at it quietly.

“You said you’d explain,” Steve says, quietly, taking a seat opposite him, while Bucky hovers somewhere around the back of the couch (just in case Tony freaked out and accused him of trying to make a move on him by sitting next to him on the couch – Tony denies ever being so volatile, but stupid people often have stupid ideas).

“Uh, it’s a little complicated and I’m not quite sure I understand it myself. Basically, there’s this creepy thing called the Tesseract that my father was studying in 1990. He’s Howard Stark, by the way, the weapon’s manufacturer. I’m Tony, by the way, I just realised that I never told you my name. Anyway, I touched it and ended up landing in a fucking dumpster in Brooklyn. So, yeah, that’s my explanation.”

He downs the rest of the tea in one quick gulp after that and waits for their sure-to-be amusing reaction.

To their credit, Bucky just sits there, eyes big and round as the moon. Steve on the other hand looks like he’s biting back the flood of words that rise in his throat.

“Uh, doll, we’re gonna need somethin’ more than that,” he says, slowly, hands fisting in his slacks.

Tony sighs and sticks a hand in his jacket, pulling out his Walkman, earphones tangled around it, and tossing it to Bucky, who picks it up with no small amount of confusion, turning it over in his palm.

“What is it?” he asks, bewildered by the device.

“It’s called a Walkman; you listen to music with it,” he says, casually.

He leans over, unwrapping the earphones and deftly sticking one end in Bucky’s ear. He presses the button on the Walkman and The Police’s _Every Breath You Take_ immediately starts crooning, loud enough that even Tony can hear it.

Bucky’s face changes immediately, going from perplexed to awed to plain delighted, as he subconsciously starts bobbing his head to the music.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Steve scowls at him. “Don’t hog it, jerk.”

Tony rolls his eyes and finds the other earphone and sticks it in Steve’s right year ( _partial deafness_ , he remembers, like he hadn’t read that file over and over again like a nun reads a bible when he was six).

It’s quite beautiful to watch, in fact, these two men from the Greatest Generation exposed to the first touch of technology, of what the future had to offer them.

He cringes, inwardly, because he knows how the story ends, and he rubs his aching sternum, eyes falling to his empty lap.

His alpha mate, long dead and made a meal for the worms. What were the odds?

“So, you’re from 1990, did you say?” Bucky finally manages to say, like his mouth is full of cotton.

Tony hums in agreement, with the faintest hint of a smile.

“And this thing your dad was studyin’, the Tesseract, that’s what dropped ya in our time?” Steve asks, curiously. “Like The Time Machine?”

God, he forgot; _that_ was the current time travel literature in the fucking Thirties.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he sighs, for want of a better explanation.

Steve leans forward. “How’re you gonna get back?”

“No fucking clue,” Tony mutters. “Look, I know that it’s kind of a dick move considering you just met me a couple of hours ago, but you think I could crash here?”

“Of course,” Bucky says, immediately.

He says it so quickly and with enough emotion that it has Tony slanting his shoulders at him in a defensive tilt, narrowing his eyes.

“No strings attached,” he says, sharply. “You bring that knot of yours anywhere near me, and I will cut it right off, understood?”

Bucky flushes, a little in embarrassment, a little in arousal (Tony can smell it in the air, the reek), and nods, while Steve also gives his friend enough of a stern glare that Tony doesn’t think he’ll have any problem protecting his absentee virtue, not with fucking Captain America (even tiny and perpetually coughing) acting as his chaperone.

He sinks back against the lumpy couch and thinks, _I thought getting from Brooklyn to fucking Fifth Avenue was going to be hard; how the fuck am I going to travel sixty years through space and time?_

* * *

Bucky and Steve are enough of the chivalrous alpha archetype that they immediately give up their twin beds for him, realising only after the fact that, as one person with one body, Tony only needs one bed and is not so eager to gratify their stupid urges to re-enact some stupid Chaucer novel.

An awful pain hits him in the night, when he’s sleeping. He’s thrashing and clutching at his belly, as if someone were stomping down on it with heavy, metalled feet, and when he wakes up with a start, almost a breathless scream, and he looks down, his thighs are running red and sticky with blood.

“Oh, shit,” he moans, hand fisting in his dark hair. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He crawls off the bed with a weak stumble, stomach curdling and aching. When he looks back, there’s a dark red stain, already turning a brown-black, on the otherwise pale sheets, and he drags a hand over his face.

The bedroom door rattles with a knock and Tony startles, staring at it like it was a demon waiting to drag him down to hell.

“Tony? You okay in there?”

He stares at the stain, the red-black like a foam flower, and his stomach rolls.

“Tony? Tony, what’s goin’ on?”

He vaguely remembers being something like eleven or twelve and burning his bedsheets when he gets his first heat hits and he’s bleeding like a stuck pig, and his father storms in, shouting at him for being so reckless, so stupid, to just start a fire in their house, and he takes one look at the bedsheets and Tony’s defiant look and falls silent.

Howard had sighed and approached him, gripping his shoulder.

“Tony,” he had murmured. “Tony, it’s alright.”

“No, no, it’s not,” Tony had insisted. “I don’t… I don’t want this, Dad. Dad, I don’t want this.”

“You think any of us wanted this,” Howard had scorned. “You think any of us wanted to bleed and breed, like that’s all we’re good for in this world. Well, we didn’t, you didn’t, so get over it.”

Tony had wrapped his arms around himself, stinging with the bite of shame at Howard’s words. “Will it… will it always be like this? There’s-there’s so much blood, I…”

“It’ll be worse when you meet your soulmate. It always is. It’s our bodies telling us that this person is it, this person is the best person, this person is the _only_ person. Nine parts mess, one part magic, Tony,” Howard said, wistfully.

Now, Tony drags his hand through his hair.

Finally, he decides that suffering is braver than dying and climbs to his feet and stumbling over the door. When he swings it open, Bucky is startled, raking his eyes over Tony, not in a creepy, obscene way, but in a _I’m scared that a serial killer crawled in through the window and tried to burn you in your bed_ way.

“You okay, doll?” Bucky asks, concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Tony rasps. Shame prickles at the back of his neck. “I just… I think I need new sheets.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Why do you need…?” He eyes the stained sheets over Tony’s shoulder and his eyes dawn with realisation. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Tony finishes, awkwardly.

“We have some in the closet,” Bucky offers. “I’ll get ‘em for you, and I can put those in the wash?”

Tony grimaces. “Yeah, no, that’s not happening.”

He draws the line at letting his alpha mate handle his period sheets, even if he thinks it’s pretty fucking fantastic alpha behaviour in a couple that have been together for twenty years.

Instead, he grapples with the sheets himself, rolling them into the ball and pushing past Bucky, who shrinks away.

“You got a bucket or something?” he asks, briskly.

Bucky blinks. “Yeah, sure, let me get one for ya.”

Tony is left standing there in the middle of the living room, clutching his stained sheets to his chest like a newborn baby, just as Steve stumbles out of the room, roused awake by Tony’s fussing and Bucky’s interrogation.

“What’s goin’ on?” he mutters, rubbing his eye with a clenched fist.

“Nothing,” Tony says, sternly.

Steve sniffs the air, an action which Tony narrows his eyes at – Tony hates it when alphas use their noses to do all their work for them, because they seem biologically incapable of keeping out of other peoples’ business.

“I’m bleeding, okay,” Tony snaps, rigid with fury. “That enough information for you, or would you like to examine the sheets?”

Steve turns red. 

“Are you, uh, are you feelin’ okay? Do you want me to get you anythin’? Maybe some tea, or I could boil some water, get some towels.”

“I’m not having a baby,” Tony says, scathingly, and the itch under his skin begins to get to him.

“I know,” Steve says, quickly. “I know. I just thought… uh, I thought you might be sore?”

Tony collapses into sheer misery. “I am,” it comes out rough and flat. “It hurts, a lot,” he admits, smiling weakly. “Worse than any other heat I’ve ever had.”

It’s as if someone had reached into his gut and started removing his organs, one by one.

Steve’s sharp, hollow features soften with concern and Tony’s almost half-sick with the resentment that his father had been right about Steve Rogers – Steve _is_ good, and he hates it.

“Why is it so bad this time, you think?” Steve asks, confused.

“Because Bucky is my soulmate,” Tony says, bluntly. He hesitates. “My dad said, he said that it would be worse when I met my soulmate. It’s our bodies telling us that this person is it, this person is the best person, this person is the _only_ person. Nine parts mess, one part magic.”

“That’s kind of beautiful,” Steve offers. He frowns. “In a horrifyin’ way.”

Tony snorts. “That’s an understatement.” He pauses. “I don’t…”

_I don’t want this with your friend. I don’t… I don’t want to be some alpha’s omega. I don’t want to be a dead man’s omega. I don’t want to chain myself to a man who’s going to die. I think your friend might be the death of me. I don’t want to die._

He doesn’t say any of these things to Steve; Steve wouldn’t understand, alpha that he is.

It’s not fair, but it is.

“Tony?” Steve pushes.

Tony stares at him. “It’s nothing,” he says, quietly.

“Here,” Bucky calls out, approaching with a bucket of cold water in his hand. He drops it down in front of Tony, the rim splashing over. “Dunk them in this and we’ll deal with it in the morning.”

Tony sighs and drops the sheets inside, until they soak right through and sink to the bottom.

“You should get some sleep,” Bucky says, gently.

Tony raises his head to meet his pale, searching eyes and feels that tell-tale twist of heat in his belly.

_Oh, shit, not already._

“You guys, uh, got some supplies?”

Bucky’s brow knits together. “Supplies?”

Tony gives him a look. “Pads, tampons, menstrual cups. You getting my drift?”

Steve looks aghast. “You have any clue how pricey tampons are?” he asks, his voice rising in pitch.

Tony rolls his eyes, half-amused. “Kid, if I don’t get something between my legs soon, you’re gonna lose all your sheets,” he says, bluntly.

“I’ve got some old shirts,” Bucky offers. “You could tear ‘em up into rags?”

“See,” Tony says, grandly. “An actual pragmatic suggestion.” He sighs. “Maybe this is why we’re mates.”

Bucky preens. He brings back an armful of old shirts that Tony gets around to tearing up into small pieces of cloth that he shoves between his legs. He stumbles back onto the mattress, sinking down flat, and burrows his face into the pillow.

He curls himself into a ball, arms wrapped around his stomach, and falls gladly into sweet muzzy exhaustion.

* * *

Three days later, the real kicker of the heat begins.

He wakes up in a heavy sweat, hair damp against his forehead, and a sickly-sweet pain flares up hot between his legs, not hurting but a miserable ache that makes his skin crawl.

He writhes there on the bed, and all he sees is big, deft hands and chest hair and strong thighs and god, Bucky bearing him down on this bed and skewering him on his cock and his knot locking inside him.

He’s dizzy with it, the blood hot in his face, and when there’s a knock on the door, Tony turns to it with a whine.

“Tony, Tony, it’s just me,” Bucky says, breathlessly. “I sent Stevie away. I didn’t think it was good if he stuck around. I’m not gonna come in, though, okay. I’m just, uh, gonna stay here. And if you need anythin’, let me know.”

Tony grunts, back arching, and he leans down to fist his cock, the smooth tenor of Bucky’s voice making him stir in his hand.

“Tony? Tony, you okay?”

Tony’s lungs constrict and he twists into a vague sprawl on top of the sheets, so that there’s some weight on his stomach – he’s not bleeding anymore, but that doesn’t make the ache in his belly any less fierce, and it’s a sad comfort how much it helps when his warm palm presses up against the underside of his flat stomach, which dulls the pain somewhat.

“Tony, you’re not answerin’ me. Can I open the door?”

His heart pounds against his lungs and he stretches out his thighs until he’s certain that he can hear his bones pop.

“Tony, Tony, you’re worryin’ me, doll. I’m openin’ the door, okay?”

The door swings open and Tony can see the exact moment when the scent of his heat assaults the alpha, his pale eyes going black and liquid as stones in the dim light.

“Shit, doll, didn’t realise,” Bucky says, awkwardly, hand gripping onto the doorframe with enough strength that Tony thinks he might crack the wood. “I’ll, uh, I’ll just go.”

 _You’re going to die_ , Tony thinks. _Years from now, you’re going to fall off a plane and die in the mountains and I’ll never see you again, if I ever leave this time. I’m never going to have this again, if I even have it now, because I was never meant to have it._

The grief fists in his ribs.

They deserved better than this.

“No,” Tony rasps, head tilting to the side, a bright sheen across his eyes.

God, he must reek.

Then again, the alpha ( _his_ alpha) must love it.

“Tony, doll.”

Bucky’s eyes flutter closed, tongue darting out to lick his dry mouth – Tony wonders if he can taste his scent, the scent of his heat, his omega scent, and fuck, that makes him wet.

Bucky drags in air through his teeth.

“Tony, you don’t know what you’re saying. I can’t…”

Tony grips the bedpost and heaves himself up, hand fisting in the sweaty sheets.

“You think I can’t consent,” he says, dully, hand slipping between his thighs to fist at his half-hard cock. “You think my heat makes me weak and stupid, and you’d be taking advantage of me if you fucked me, right?”

Bucky flushes from hairline to collar, and Tony’s eyes linger on the smattering of dark chest hair he can see through the parting in his night shirt.

“You’re wrong,” he says, firmly, words slurring just the slightest. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m saying,” he keens in a low voice, tipping his head back, as his belly clenches and warmth rolls out, making his thighs slick. “You’re wrong. I do, I do. Now, unless you’re not interested in what I’m offering, I want you to _stay_.”

“Tony,” Bucky moans, agonised.

Tony throws back the sheets, revealing the long, lean lines of his naked form, his nipples tightening in the cold air, the gleam of slick on his thighs, and his cock curving against his belly, flushed and weeping with pre-come.

Bucky groans, eyes black, with a ring of red, beneath his eyelashes.

“Come on, stud,” Tony croons, having enough grip over himself to run his thumb back and forth over the slope of his hipbone. “Join me.”

Bucky grunts, swaying forward, as if he’s right on the edge of crawling into the bed with Tony.

He needs one more push.

“Bucky,” Tony lowers his voice to something sweet, something soft. “I’m not going to force you into this, I’m not going to guilt you into it either. I want this, and I think you want this too. Let’s have a good night together, huh?”

Bucky drags a hand over his face, jaw clenching like stone, before he pads into the room, shedding his shirt and pyjama pants, climbing into the bed to pull Tony in close, fingers brushing Tony’s damp hair out of his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” Bucky declares.

Tony snorts, having enough presence of mind even in the full thrash of his heat to see the come-on as it is.

“Calm down, Casanova,” he says, dryly. “I’m still gonna sleep with you even if you don’t compliment me.”

Bucky rears back, a little affronted, judging by the expression on his face.

“You’re my mate,” he insists.

“And?” Tony queries. “You think that makes you love me?” He touches Bucky’s cheek, fondly. “That’s a fairytale, handsome.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t be happy,” Bucky offers, quiet and careful.

 _Oh, honey, you’re going to die, which means we can’t ever be happy_ , Tony thinks, mournfully.

Tony drags his fingers through Bucky’s fluffy hair, leaning in to kiss him firmly and with skill. He hooks a leg over Bucky’s hip, leaning in to nip at his lower lip. He wraps his arms around him, and his scent flares sweet and firm, to which Bucky groans, tucking his face against his neck where it’s thickest.

“You smell… you smell…” Bucky rushes out, like he’s afraid to breathe and it will disappear. “God, you smell like mine, like happiness. Is that strange?”

Tony shakes with quiet laughter, while fire licks up his insides. “While I love foreplay on a normal day, I’m not really in a good place for something slow right now.” He lowers his lashes, smiling faintly. “Could we, uh…” he trails off, his mouth dry.

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky says, breathlessly.

Tony takes the lead, reaching between their bodies to wrap a hand around Bucky’s cock. He groans, Tony’s alpha mate, and his hips jerk into Tony’s grip, his dense alpha thrum soothing the sharp, biting heat in his belly, as if soothing him, _yes, alpha is here, alpha will take care of you._

Tony hates how much he wants it.

Bucky was already hard, and when Bucky slips his fingers between his legs, he finds him wet and slick and open, parting for him like a sweet, ripe peach. Tony grunts, as he sinks in, inch by inch.

Fuck, it feels good, _too good_ , to be stretched and filled up like this.

Finally, the blunt pressure of his cock pushes deep inside him, right until the base, the hard muscle of his knot pressing insistently where they’re joined.

“You feel so good,” Bucky moans.

Tony can’t do much more than clutch at the sheets, but his sigh is his agreement.

Bucky’s hips stutter and snap forward.

“Shit, shit,” Bucky hisses, gripping at Tony’s hip.

Tony cants his hips up, nails digging into his shoulder.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers, his voice catching. “Don’t stop.”

The burn eases, when Bucky rams back in.

“I’m not-I’m not gonna last long,” Bucky warns, a strange flush to his cheeks, not borne from sweat.

 _Shame_ , Tony realises, amused.

Tony pats him on the cheek. “Endurance is overrated,” he manages to mollify.

Bucky shakes his head, hands shaking. “I should… I should last…” he can’t seem to get the words out.

“No,” Tony disagrees, almost vehemently, the next thrust dragging the air out of his lungs so sweetly, until Tony’s muscles and seizing up. “No, I’m in heat, the longer this lasts, the longer… it’ll hurt.”

He makes a little gasping noise when Bucky’s cock gets his prostate.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m coming, I’m coming!” Bucky pants against his throat, teeth sharp against his pulse.

His knot locks inside him, and Tony moans, coming embarrassingly fast himself, just by grinding up against Bucky’s belly, the smooth skin, the dark, coarse hair leading down to the thatch of his pubic hair, when he feels that hot, lovely rush of come.

Bucky collapses on top of him, breathing sharp and hot, and Tony’s eyes sting with how comforting, how gentle it is when his alpha scent floods.

“That was…” Tony licks his lips. “That was really fucking good,” he confesses, roughly.

Bucky huffs out a laugh. “I’m glad ya liked it,” he says, a bit of swagger to his voice, now that the rush has passed.

He kisses Tony’s collarbone, so gently, that all of his bravado, his haughtiness, collapses and he feels shy, like he might have as a boy.

Sue him, he likes the way Bucky holds him.

Bucky settles back against the bed and doesn’t hesitate to drag him into his arms, hand settling on the mess that Tony’s hair has become, his knot shifting inside Tony.

Tony doesn’t protest, even if he should – it’s not _smart_ , but Bucky kisses him again, deep and messy, and he doesn’t have the strength in him to argue, to pull away.

He wants this, he wants _him_.

He can feel it coming again, the deluge of his heat, his blood beating hot.

“I’m probably going to want to go again in a couple of minutes,” Tony offers. “You up for it?”

Bucky’s smile is lazy, warm. “You can have me all ya want, doll.”

“If you two are gonna fuck again, I’m leavin’,” Steve shouts from the lounge.

Bucky’s eyes widen, comically. “Shit, I completely forgot about him.”

Tony huffs, sinking back against the pillows, nose burrowing into Bucky’s firm shoulder. “I can’t believe he fucking swears,” he grumbles. “I feel cheated out of my childhood fantasies.”


End file.
